Half A Chance eBook

“Might have known that!” with an attempt
at jocoseness. “But thought we would make
sure. Your balcony, you have looked there?”

“Yes.”

“Very well; lock your window leading to it.
Only as a matter of precaution,” he repeated
hastily. “No need of our coming in, I fancy.
You had retired?”

“I—­was about to.”

“Quite right.” A moment the party
lingered. “Shall I send one of the maids
to sleep in your dressing-room? Company, you know!
Your voice sounds a little nervous.”

“Does it? Not at all!” she said hastily.
“I am—­not in the least nervous.”

“Good night, then!” They went. “One
of my men in the garden felt sure he had seen him
return toward the house,” Mr. Gillett’s
voice was wafted back, became fainter, died away.

The man in the room stood motionless now, his face
like that of a statue save for the light and life
of his eyes. The clock beat the moments; he looked
at her. The girl was almost turned from him; he
saw more of the bright hair than the pale profile,
so still against the delicately carved arabesques
of the panel.

“The other way would have been—­preferable!”

There was nothing reckless or bold in his bearing
now; but, looking away, she did not see. Was
he tempted, if only in an infinitesimal degree, to
suggest a plea of mitigating circumstances—­not
for his own sake but for hers; that she might feel
less keenly that sense of hurt, of outraged pride,
for having smiled on him, admitted him to a certain
frank, free intimacy? Before the words fell from
his lips, however, she turned; her gaze arrested his
purpose, made him feel poignantly, acutely, the distance
now between them. “What were you,”
she hesitated, emphasized over-sharply the word, “transported
for?”

An instant his eyes flashed suddenly back at her,
as if he were on the point of answering, telling her
all, disavowing; but to what end? To ask more
of her than of others, throw himself on her generosity?

“What does it matter?”

True; what did it matter to her; he had been in prisons
before, by his own words.

“Your name, of course, is not John Steele?”

He confessed it a purloined asset.

“What was it?”

He looked at her—­beyond! To a storm-tossed
ship, a golden-haired child, her curls in disorder,
moving with difficulty, yet clinging so steadfastly
to a small cage. His name? It may be he heard
again the loud pounding and knocking; held her once
more to his breast, felt the confiding, soft arms.

“What does it matter?” he repeated.

What, indeed? That which she had not been able
to penetrate, to understand in him, this was it!
This!

“But why”—­fragments of what
he had said recurred to her; she spoke mechanically—­“when
you found yourself recognized, did you not leave England;
why did you come here—­to Strathorn House;
incur the danger, the risk?”